In Spanish Hills

From my poetry blog.

Coronets For Ghosts

In Spanish Hills
In this fiery furnace
is forged a languid blade,
yet in these hills
is a vibrant pulse.
And formed within
this small enclave
is a definite sense
of them, and us.

The eye drowns in colour
and shimmering haze,
yet we carry around 
a windswept moor.
On an azure calm
our vision sails,
but what comes to mind
is a battered shore.


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2 thoughts on “In Spanish Hills

    • Thank you Linda. My writing serves as a diary- I remember where and when. I wrote this early one morning, sat by a pool while my wife and her friend slept. The friend had a villa in an English enclave, and I was thinking about how these nationals cluster together, and bring with them memories of home.


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